Through a Glass Darkly
by hobgoblinn
Summary: You'd think with all the supernatural energy and traumatic deaths on the Hellmouth, we'd have seen more ghosts in Sunnydale before the First. Here’s the story of one of the not quite dearly departed.
1. Chapter 1

_You'd think with all the supernatural energy and traumatic deaths on the Hellmouth, we'd have seen more ghosts in Sunnydale before the First. Here's the story of one of the not quite dearly departed. Written for the tenyearsofbuffy ficathon on Live Journal, March 3, 2007. The prompt was my own, and will be revealed at the end of this first part. Many and sincere thanks for their invaluable comments and critical readings go to rahirah, clavally, rainkatt and antennapedia-- the latter for reading through multiple versions, including the final draft. All mistakes remaining are my own. They did try._

_Spoilers/ Time period: End of Season 3 to Start of Season 5._

_Characters: Core Scoobies + Anya and Tara, with a special guest appearance by someone not quite dearly departed._

_Rating: FRT_

_Disclaimer: I own nothing in the Buffyverse. Or anywhere else, for that matter. Strictly for entertainment, and no profit is being made. Please sue somebody else._

_Distribution: If you're planning on asking me, I'm planning on saying "yes." Just let me know where it's going._

* * *

Through a Glass Darkly, part 1/4 

He wondered sometimes, later, what he would have done differently, if he had known that it was going to be his last day alive on earth. He replayed the day over and over in his mind. He remembered getting up with the dawn, as was his habit, and dressing in his crisp white shirt, grey suit, striped tie. He'd stomped into his office a little before 7:00 and taken a seat behind his desk, scowling down at the graduation program in his hand. Something was misspelled-- deliberately, he was still convinced, because he distinctly remembered double checking the proof. The band would apparently be playing Elgar's classic, "Poop and Circumstance" while the pathetic bunch of losers known as the Class of 1999 was filing in that afternoon.

He remembered thinking that it would be sweltering later, and he'd toyed briefly with the idea that the solar eclipse might cool things down a bit. He'd asked Wilkins months before, when he had first realized graduation day would be marked by a total eclipse of the sun, if they shouldn't reschedule the event. But the Mayor had been insistent-- he was a busy man, after all. He still recalled the goofily affable grin as Wilkins had said, "The show must go on! Besides, it'll make the day so much more... memorable for everyone, don't you think?"

He remembered setting the program aside and taking a sip of bitter, black instant coffee from a white styrofoam cup. Remembering it now, he regretted not stopping at the Espresso Pump on the way to work. He remembered flicking on the clock radio sitting on the bookshelf behind his desk. Even now, could almost taste the oily bitterness on his tongue, smell the musty decay of mildewing books on the shelves around him, hear the static-filled broadcast from a public radio station in LA...

He didn't have many specific memories of how his day had proceeded after that. He could extrapolate, remember facts from dozens of similar events over his career-- final checks, greeting guests and parents, threatening troublemakers, making sure the microphone had been set up and tested, everything in order and ready to go. But the last moments-- those were clear. How chaos had erupted all around him. How Mayor Wilkins himself suddenly changed into something which simply could not be. In nightmare slow motion, he saw himself shouting, demanding order. And then, a sickening crushing pain, the crack of bone and rush of blood. And darkness swallowing him whole.

That darkness surrounded him still as he wandered his beautiful, wrecked campus. It was always dark, now. Everywhere he looked, things were broken, shattered. He tried to remove scraps of paper littering the algae-scummed pond where a fountain had once sparkled in the sunlight. But his fingers passed through whatever he reached for. He didn't understand why, at first. But then, in a bathroom mirror on the second floor, where the moon shone now through tumbled-down walls, he saw a pale, wispy reflection of himself, his eyes glittering darkly, his suit and tie pressed and immaculate as they had been on the last morning of his life. And then, he knew. He was dead.

He was not always alone. At times he could sense hundreds of souls milling about, all around him. He knew he should be with them, that his continuation in this eternal darkness was an affront to both God and Nature. But some force held him, and he could not penetrate the barrier between himself and the others. So he gave up, pretending it was merely the change of class periods, and that there were students jostling past him. The fiction was comforting, and if he did not try hard to penetrate the mist before his eyes, he did not have to face the fact that the school, and everything he had known, was gone.

At other times, there was only a profound silence. He would wander aimlessly, looking for something, but he wasn't sure what. Time slipped by, but time held no meaning for him now. It might have been minutes, or years, before he heard a familiar voice.

* * *

"Wow. We really did a number on this place, didn't we?" Buffy picked her way carefully through the rubble, steadying her companion as the rock shifted beneath their feet. When they got to a clear space, she looked up at her Watcher and frowned. Giles had a stunned, rather lost look on his face as he took in the unholy mess around them. Then he seemed to recollect himself. 

"Um, indeed," he replied with a somewhat unconvincing chuckle. "I suspect my services will no longer be required by Sunnydale High School anytime in the foreseeable future." He paused, then added, "Unless to fill in this bloody great hole." He gestured toward the Hellmouth, which looked deceptively peaceful in the afternoon sunlight streaming in from above, the library skylight quite a bit enlarged by their industry.

Buffy wrinkled her nose as she turned to survey the ruin of their old sanctuary. Picking her way forward carefully, she struggled to put her feelings into words. "It seems... smaller now," she said finally, sadly.

Giles' smile was tight, and, Buffy thought, a little pained as well. "Yes, I suppose that it does," he agreed. The plaster and shattered glass crunched beneath his feet as he moved to join her, not far from where his office door had once stood.

She said, with forced cheerfulness, "Good thing we got everything important out before it blew, huh?"

"Um, yes," he agreed, with a strangely nervous rise in his voice. She frowned, a little puzzled, as he went on, "Indeed, my flat is almost bursting at the seams. Do you know, I'm seriously considering Willow's offer to help me transfer some of them to um, digital images, and put the physical volumes into storage?"

If it had been Willow, Buffy would have called this babbling, and she wondered briefly why Giles seemed so on edge. It must be upsetting to have lost both your jobs in the space of only a few months, she decided, even more if you did lose the last one because you helped blow it up. She shrugged and dismissed the thought as just another of those mysteries which was Giles. Glancing up, she saw him smiling sadly at the place where their old research table had stood. It was now little more than matchsticks. She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and nudged at him playfully to try to cheer him.

"Check you out," she grinned. "The Watcher enters the 20th century! Just in time for the 21st." She paused, then said, more quietly, "Miss Calendar would be proud."

For a second, she thought she'd said too much, as the flicker of pain crossed his face. But then, he placed his hand over hers and squeezed it in silent thanks. The gesture made her strangely nervous, herself, and she also began to babble a little. "Wait-- 'Watcher enters the digital age...' Isn't that one of the sure signs of an impending apocalypse? Shouldn't we be done for the year?" She pulled away and said shakily, "I thought I'd get a couple of days' vacation at least."

Giles gave her the smile she'd always classified as the "be patient with Buffy; she's very young" smile. "Of course you've earned a break," he agreed gently. Then he turned more serious as he continued, "But Buffy, you are still the Slayer. Whether you you choose to seek out evil or not, you must still be very careful. It will be drawn to you. It isn't fair, but..." he shrugged. "It is the truth."

Buffy nodded, sighing deeply. She knew he was right. "Yeah. And how sad is it, that the thought of slayage doesn't scare me half as much as starting college?"

"You'll do fine, Buffy," Giles replied in his best reassuring voice. They both froze as a sudden icy breeze stirred the dust at their feet. Buffy shivered and looked around uneasily.

"Did you hear something?" she asked him. He cocked his head, listening. But neither of them could hear anything now.

"No," he replied slowly. "But we'd best be getting back." Buffy nodded, and they turned to make their careful way back out into the world.

* * *

The sounds of their footsteps and voices began to fade, as they moved away. Listening in the dark, the man realized he had found what he had been looking for. Summers, and that British librarian. He followed them, drawn as if by a magnet. Keeping an eye on both of them-- he remembered that. It had been important once. And now, in this dark mist, he held on to it as the most vital, crucial piece of his unnatural existence. 

And so the silent observer traded one misty darkness for another. Sometimes he found himself amidst endless shelves of books. He read the titles at first, but many were in strange alphabets or gibberish, and many more bore disturbing titles with words like "Codex" and "Grimoire". He didn't approve, though he couldn't remember exactly why.

He would hear a radio and drift toward it, the same static-y station from LA that had so often been his early morning companion in his office, only to hear a peevish British voice muttering about the piss-poor radio reception. He found if he stayed still, he could hear the music almost clearly. But eventually he forgot, and as he moved closer to the sound, the signal would break up again. Then the librarian would mutter darkly under his breath as he attempted to boost the signal reception by fiddling with one of the radio's dials.

At other times, he found himself in a cemetery, headstones and crypts casting weird shadows in the moonlight. He would shiver briefly at the thought of being alone in such a place, and then he would catch a glimpse of gold out of the corner of his eye, and his panic would ease. He followed the slightly built girl, little more than a child, as she prowled these barren wastelands, surprised each time to find more signs of life than he might have expected.

Except, the creatures she encountered were seldom alive. Though he had known Sunnydale was located on a Hellmouth, he hadn't truly appreciated all that meant, before. But now he saw them, more clearly than he saw the living-- demons flickering in magically animated dead flesh. He'd never been a particularly religious man, but when he realized he was dead, but not like these things, he had been-- thankful. Profoundly grateful, not to be like that. They were like a cancer-- disorderly, and just-- wrong. And he rejoiced each time she beat one back, then removed it from the world with a deft thrust of sharpened wood through the creature's undead heart.

Sometimes he heard conversations, familiar voices. He said their names in his head: Harris. Rosenberg. Osborne. Later, there were new voices as well. But he found himself unable to follow most of their conversations, and for the most part uninterested. He just drifted through the stones, or through the books, restlessly, aimlessly. Watching.

Time's passage held no particular meaning for him, but he did notice an odd cycle to his existence, orderly in its disorder. It began as a gradual welling up of emotion-- uncomfortable at first, like a vague uneasy dread, which built almost imperceptibly through agitation, then terror, then blind, weeping panic. At its height, he would lash out, as he sought desperately to touch something, anything. And-- things began to happen.

Little things at first-- the librarian's glasses knocked off a bedside table in the night. Then a mug of tea shattering on the kitchen floor. A container of pens upended on a desk. And then, one night, a stone rising from the path to strike a burly biker in the back of the head, distracting it just long enough for Summers to flip back to her feet and drive a stake home.

"Hey, does it feel kind of cold to you tonight?" she asked her companions as she brushed the dust from her hair. The vampire had been quite a bit taller than she, and looming over her at just the wrong angle when she'd taken advantage of his momentary distraction.

Willow looked around uneasily. "It did... just for a second. Like the wind shifted or something."

Xander grinned. "You're both crazy," he said cheerfully. "You're just trying to weasel out of our bet. C'mon, you both owe me a triple dip fudge sundae. Pay up."

Buffy frowned, stretching her Slayer senses to try to identify whatever it was that had disquieted her. But then, her senses had been pretty wonky since they had tapped into the spirit of the First Slayer to defeat Adam. There was nothing out there now. Just the slowly cooling heat of a summer night. "Yeah. C'mon guys. Let's pack it in."

* * *

Prompt: You'd think with all the supernatural energy and traumatic deaths on the Hellmouth, we'd have seen more ghosts in Sunnydale before the First. 

So-- tell a ghost story.

Characters: Core Scoobies, anyone else fine

Prompt:

1)Anytime prior to S7

2) Ghost may be a familiar character (or not)

3) Extra points for someone explaining that the unfortunate phrase "laying a ghost" does Not mean what you were thinking...


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Many thanks go to the following for perceptive comments and helpful advice: rahirah, clavally, theblackmare, rainkatt, gillo, slaymesoftly, partri65. Special thanks to antennapedia for final, final beta. All remaining mistakes are my own, of course._

_Please note: the rest of this story takes place early in the summer after Season 4. Takes a while for those ghost batteries to warm up, okay?_

* * *

Through a Glass Darkly, part 2/4 

"I just... I can't find it anywhere." Giles' voice sounded a little muffled in Buffy's ears, occupied as she was just then searching underneath the couch. It was amazingly, almost frighteningly, dust-free. She reflected, not for the first time, what a neat freak the guy was. But at the moment, even muffled, there was an edge to her friend's voice that was starting to scare her.

"I always replace the phone in its charger," he continued. "Always. But lately, whenever I go to use it it's just..." He trailed off in frustration as she sat up and blew the hair out of her face. She watched as he began rifling frantically through a pile of papers on the floor beside his desk. Again. For, like, the fourth time.

There were several such piles scattered around the otherwise immaculate apartment, unusual for him, careless clutter left in the aftermath of their stopping yet another apocalypse. Her place was much worse, of course. The joining spell they'd used had had strange effects on them all, and she suspected Giles was also not getting nearly as much sleep as he would have them believe. These papers, and the way Giles was shuffling through them, were just the tip of the iceberg, the clue that things were really not okay in Giles-land at the moment.

She pushed aside her fear as she watched him descend slowly into a very unGiles-like panic. Trying for a calming, soothing tone, she said, "Um, well, I said I'd help you look, and I will. It'll be okay Giles. Really." But even as she said it, a doubt niggled at her. Something else was off about today, this place. She shivered, then realized what it was. Cold, but no AC on-- she knew Giles didn't believe in it. Frowning, but a little relieved to find something which might divert him, she continued, "But Giles, stop for a second. Doesn't it feel kinda cold in here to you?"

Buffy saw the familiar pause and blink. "Yes, I do believe it does," he replied slowly. He glanced toward the window, where the late afternoon sun streamed through brightly. "Wasn't it supposed to get up into the 90s today?" he asked, his brow furrowed in puzzlement.

"Yeah," Buffy agreed, a little surprised that he'd known. Though in the weeks since the joining spell, she had been spending more time with him, and he'd frequently surprised her with the things he knew, the things he noticed. Maybe they were things he always knew, always noticed. Maybe it was just that now she was paying more attention.

There was something about this cold, though. She had an odd feeling, like there was something hovering just beyond her conscious sight. The same feeling she'd had the previous night, in fact. She said, "You know, I've been cold a lot lately, at funny times. Like out on patrol last night. Willow noticed it too." She hesitated, then went on, "Do you think it might be... because of the spell we did?"

"Well, if we could ever _find_ my telephone, we might ask Willow and Xander if they also have noticed anything unusual of late..." They both started slightly at the sound which interrupted the beginning of the Watcher's rant: a thump behind Buffy, in the corner of the living room. There, on the floor, lay the object they had both spent the better part of an hour looking for.

Buffy traded a look with Giles. "I'm sure that wasn't there a minute ago," she said slowly. "I checked those bookshelves. And the floor."

"So did I, before you arrived." They watched for a moment, but the handset continued to lie on the floor, unmoving. They traded another look. Buffy approached it cautiously, picked it up, and shivered again.

"What is with the deep freeze in here, Giles?" She handed the phone over to him and wrapped her arms around herself for warmth.

"I don't know," he replied absently. He had that funny look in his eyes, the one he got sometimes, when he was trying to see something just beyond the surface. She held her breath, reaching out with Slayer senses, too. But, other than the cold, there was nothing. Giles shook his head as he, too, gave up the attempt.

"I'm not getting anything," he said apologetically. "You?" Buffy shook her head. Giles considered a moment, then said, "Perhaps Willow might have better luck." He began dialing, and Buffy heard the faint electronic beeps as he pressed each number on the keypad.

"Good idea," Buffy agreed. "But, Giles? Mind if I borrow a sweater?"

"What? Oh, not at all," he replied, raising the handset to his ear as Buffy ascended the stairs to his loft in search of warmer clothing.

She returned as Giles was replacing the phone in the charger base with a dull but emphatic click. She saw him look up and smile as she held up a second sweater, then tossed it over to him. "Thank you, Buffy."

He pulled the green sweater over his head. "Xander was not home, or at least, there was no answer." Buffy suppressed a grin-- it wouldn't have surprised her to learn that Xander and Anya were far to wrapped up in each other to bother with picking up a ringing phone. Giles' expression mirrored hers as he continued, "So I left a message on his machine thing."

"Cool," Buffy said. "What about Willow?"

"Willow said she would be on her way over as soon as she cancelled a study session with a friend."

Buffy nodded, relieved. "Help's on the way, then. Good." She noticed that her breath was starting to come in misty puffs as she exhaled. "This is really creepy, Giles."

"Indeed," Giles agreed. He rubbed his hands together, then started toward the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, "Would you care for a cup of tea?"

"Yeah," Buffy answered, going back to the corner where the phone had appeared, trying to work out where it could have fallen from, and why.

She was still examining the corner very carefully for clues and expanding her search out into the rest of the living room when she heard a knock at the door. Giles was closer, just coming out of the kitchen, so she let him get it, but she rose and moved to join him as he opened the door. She felt, more than saw, his back stiffen a little. "Willow. And ah... Tara. How good of you to come." He stepped aside to allow them entry.

"Hey Giles," Willow greeted him. "I... uh, you said it was cold but..."

"Yeah, it's gotten colder since he called," Buffy said from behind him. "You might need even warmer clothes than those; sorry." She looked over at her Watcher, sensing his uneasiness-- no, embarrassment. She remembered then that the last time he had seen Tara, he had not really been at his best. Of course, neither had she. She stepped forward into the breach and smiled brightly. "Thanks for coming, Tara. Will says you have some experience with magic-- whad'ya think? Are you getting a little supernatural vibe in here, or what?"

Tara returned the grin shyly. "I--I'd be happy to help," she said. "And yeah," she agreed, relaxing into a more wry smile, "I think this might be from something other than natural causes."

Buffy caught the uncertain glance Willow flicked from her to Giles. "I hope you don't mind," her friend said, a little anxiously. "Tara said she sensed something last time she was here. She's a lot more sensitive to auras and supernatural phenomena than I am."

"Not at all." Giles finally found his voice, and a warm smile as well. Buffy sighed in relief as he continued, "You shall always be welcome here, Tara. I was inexcusably rude on our last meeting, but-- I am really very happy for you both." Willow and Tara exchanged slightly embarrassed grins and murmured their thanks.

Buffy smiled at the unexpected apology and blessing. Her Watcher was usually so reticent, but he still could surprise her at times. She wondered what about Willow and Tara had brought this out in him now. Before she could reflect further, she noticed how both girls were trying to conceal their discomfort, rubbing their hands over their arms and shaking a bit from the cold.

"Here, let me get you both something warmer-- ok Giles?"

"Of course. I'll go put the kettle on for tea. Make yourselves at home, please."

As she went upstairs, she heard Willow say, "Only if my home is an arctic cave, Giles. What's going on?"

"We don't know," Buffy heard him reply. "It wasn't like this earlier." She moved out of earshot and pulled a couple of heavy woolen sweaters out of his dresser drawer. She started back down the stairs in time to hear Giles continue, "The temperature has been dropping since I called you. I don't know what to make of it..."

As Buffy reached the bottom of the stairs, she saw Tara peering intently into the shadowed corner where they had found the phone earlier. "Um, Mr. Giles?" she called, a little tentatively. "Did you know your apartment is haunted?"

Giles and Willow rushed to her side, and Buffy joined them, silently handing sweaters to Tara and Willow. "What do you see?" Giles asked softly, peering into the shadows at the edges of the dimly lit room.

"There-- by that shelf. Can you see him?" Tara pulled a dark sweater over her head and smiled gratefully at Buffy.

"No, Baby," Willow replied slowly, trading a glance with Giles and Buffy before she

pulled on her own borrowed sweater. "Is-- is he evil?"

Tara thought for a moment, then shook her head. "No. Not especially. More lost? Sad. He knows you."

"Can you see what he looks like?" Buffy asked trying without success to penetrate the gloom and see what Tara was able to make out.

"No. He's like a shadow, a vapor..." She paused, listening and looking at something beyond their perception, then sighed and turned to them apologetically. "I can't get anything else. Just some emotions-- fear, confusion."

Buffy watched Giles remove his glasses to rub tired eyes. She glanced back at his desk, and as she'd expected, his phone was not where he'd left it. She heard Giles sigh as he noticed the same thing. "As soon as we find my phone, again, we should see whether Xander... is available. And we'll need to do some research, of course."

Two distinct thuds were heard in the room-- one under his desk, where the kitchen light now illuminated the cordless phone handset, and the other by the corner shelf where Tara had seen his unwelcome guest.

"Ah, well. It would appear our friend does want to communicate with us," Giles commented mildly as he reached down to retrieve the fallen book in the corner. He held it up, and Buffy read the title: Conversations with the Dead - Methods and Techniques.

* * *

Snyder watched from the shadows as they slowly-- painfully, haltingly slowly-- put it together. It really should not have taken so long, he thought, even allowing for the time it had taken him to figure out how to move things in his ghostly state. He had worked hard to build up his control, with the same disciplined attention and concentration that had gotten him through two Master's degrees and certification in both Mathematics and school administration on his way to becoming a high school principal for the best paying and most challenging school district in the state. 

But once he'd figured out how, he'd been dropping some fairly obvious clues. He hadn't expected Summers to get it. But in this bastion of almost obsessive order, much akin to his own house when he himself had been alive, it really should not have taken so long for them to suspect his presence.

But they finally had, and all he had to do now was wait for them to figure out how to help him make contact with them. They couldn't see him, and he was feeling more drawn and stretched all the time, like something was trying to pull him away, but he was still firmly anchored here. It was becoming almost painful, which was saying something, considering his ghostly body was incapable of feeling anything. Only in memories could he feel anything at all, and those were more emotions than physical sensations, feelings like regret, sadness, and lost, icy terror.

He watched now as Giles flipped through the book, pausing on the page he had dog-eared before dropping it on the floor. After a few moments, he saw Giles look up, an excited light kindling in his eyes. Snyder had seen it a few times over the past year, when Giles had solved, or partially solved, some vexing puzzle.

"Buffy," the ex-librarian said slowly, casually. "Do you think you might be able to locate Spike and get him here?"

"Sure, she replied, standing up and stretching, laying her own book aside. "Why?"

Giles shook his head, but he was grinning. "Trust me," he said.

Snyder watched as the two of them traded another of those communication-without-words looks, and then she grinned too. Sometimes the connection between those two was almost uncanny. Snyder did not approve.

"All right," she said, still grinning. She tugged off the heavy oversized sweater, called out, "Be right back," over her shoulder, and was off into the night. Oddly, Snyder felt no pull to follow her, as he usually did.

Instead he drifted over to Rosenberg, looking over her shoulder and decrying again her choice to cut her hair in so unflattering a style. The laptop screen glowed softly as she pulled up the building commission records on this apartment building, obviously searching for likely candidates for resident ghost. He wasn't much of a computer geek-- computers had been mostly after his time, but even he could see that she was bypassing security systems in highly illegal ways. It helped that he had seen her at this sort of thing before over the past year. He wondered again whether she had broken into the Mayor's files at some point, or if her corruption had taken place after her time at Sunnydale High. Given her friends, probably before.

He glanced up as Harris and his strange girlfriend banged in through the door. A little disheveled--- yep. They'd been having premarital sex again, he thought disapprovingly. He shook his invisible head, wondering just how that relationship had started. Or why it continued. Aside from the obvious, of course.

It had taken him quite a while, including listening in on some late night conversations between the librarian and the boy, before he'd figured out why the girl was so different. She knew about so many unnatural things. Knew about, as if from personal experience. And then there were the joking references to her age, which, he'd gathered over time, were not jokes at all. She really was over a thousand years old. A former vengeance demon.

And the worst of it was, he hadn't even suspected it, before. He'd been told he was impervious to magic, which was why the Sunnydale job was such a good fit for him. But even he'd had his perceptions altered, to accept the girl as a student in his school. He knew for a fact that he had never seen her transcripts or given her the "Welcome to Sunnydale" talk he always gave new students. She'd just suddenly been there, and he'd never noticed. He, who noticed everything. He shied away from the thought, as he always did. The thought of magic touching him in any way made him distinctly uncomfortable.

Ah well, he thought, turning back to the scene at hand. It didn't look like marital sex was in the cards anytime soon, which was probably a good thing. Snyder didn't hold with mixing races, although the young woman seemed completely human now. No matter. He was sure Harris could do better. Though he had to admit, grudgingly, that since the Harris had gotten serious about her, he had left behind that endless series of dead end jobs. It was a shame he hadn't pursued wood shop while in school, but his attendance had been so erratic, and he'd been so distracted by that Summers girl, that he probably wouldn't have gotten much out of it. He was proud to see the boy settling down now.

"Whoa," Harris was saying as he slammed the door shut behind them. "You weren't kidding, Giles. It's freezing in here. What's up?"

Giles replied from the chair in the corner, where he was paging through the book Snyder had pretty much dropped into his lap. "We're not quite sure yet. We appear to have a ghost, but so far, we haven't been able to ascertain its identity."

Harris' girlfriend opened her eyes a little wider, and looked at Giles with new respect. "Wow. Who'd you kill?"

Giles removed his glasses and sighed. "No one. Yet," he murmured. Then more loudly, "Willow is looking into the building's history now."

Rosenberg turned back to her screen, frowning. "Yeah, I've been trying old records on this building, and searching the newspaper archives, but there's just nothing. The only incident we know of..." Snyder saw the flicker of pain in her eyes as she spoke, and how she faltered and glanced over at Giles, whose own eyes closed briefly. Harris' lips compressed into a grim line.

She took a steadying breath and turned back to Harris. "We know she didn't die here. And before that, I've traced the history back to when this building was built, and even the structures standing here before that. But... nothing really jumps out. Or at least, it seems like we would have seen something before now." She smiled sadly up at Tara as her lover rose to press a comforting hand on her shoulder. Snyder narrowed his eyes as he watched. Usually, these displays of affection bothered him, all the more so because he found their relationship unnatural. But the "incident" the Rosenberg girl had mentioned attracted his restless curiosity.

Snyder had to think a little before he realized who "she" was. The computer teacher, Miss... Calendar. He'd never known all the details, just that her body had been found in the librarian's apartment, and he had been cleared as a suspect in the death relatively quickly. Seeing them talk about it now, he realized that the woman and Mr. Giles had been pretty close. He had known that the kids had liked her. He wondered how she had really met her end.

Harris cut through the gloom with his usual inane babble. A frequent habit, Snyder had noticed, though it didn't irritate him as much now as it had. He'd begun to understand that this particular group led pretty grim lives, and Harris' attempt to keep fear at bay was, if not always effective, at least well-meant.

"Do we really need to know who it is, though? Why not just haul out the old exorcism candles and go to it? Banish the big boo back wherever he came from?" The boy shivered despite his heavy sweatshirt and jeans, and Snyder saw him grin a little sheepishly. "Um, Giles, do you have an extra pair of gloves?"

Giles sighed, something Snyder would have done, had he still been breathing. "No, Xander," the librarian replied patiently, "but you're welcome to a cup of tea. Or in your case, hot water with sugar in it." Giles sniffed disdainfully, and Snyder grinned a little. He had seen this particular teasing exchange more than once between them, and somehow, it was comforting.

While Harris poured himself a steaming mug, probably, Snyder thought, mostly for the purpose of wrapping his numb hands around it for warmth, Giles continued, "I don't want to be too hasty choosing a course of action here. There is the possibility that this is somehow related to our joining spell. If so, we must tread cautiously. We may have attracted more supernatural attention than just the spirit of the First Slayer. Have either of you noticed anything... unusual over the past few weeks?"

"Not unless you count those creepy dreams we all had that night," Rosenberg replied.

Harris nodded agreement. "Yeah. Maybe it's just a Watcher - Slayer thing," he added hopefully. Then, in response to the librarian's scowl, he grinned and changed the subject. "Yeah, so. If research isn't panning out, what then? Are we going to hold a seance, or what?"

Giles looked expectantly past him, and Snyder also looked up, hearing a noise at the doorstep. "Not exactly," the librarian replied, as Summers burst through the door behind them, hauling a cursing and sputtering bleached-blond vampire in her iron grip.

"I brought him, Giles, but why..." She paused, looking around. "Is it just me, or is it colder in here than when I left?"

"Quite possibly," Giles replied, rising to meet them. "As for Spike," he grinned, and Snyder detected a hint of menace behind it, as the older man looked the struggling vampire in the eye. "Do you recall my telling you, Spike, that you would regret it, if you betrayed us? Paybacks, as they say, are hell." He muttered a swift Latin incantation, reading from the open book in his hand. The vampire's eyes went wide with fear as his body began to glow an eerie green.

"Oi, now, Watcher, what the-- bloody hell..." Halfway through his curse, there was a flash, and the vampire blinked, then stared in shock at his hands, down at his body. He glared at each of them in turn, the expression oddly familiar, even as it was completely different from Spike's usual glower. He opened his mouth, and when he spoke, and the voice was not Spike's either. It was flat, nasal, unmistakable.

"You. You people blew up my school."

* * *

There was a stunned silence. Buffy released the vampire's cold wrist and stumbled backward. "Principal Snyder?" she whispered, horrified disbelief washing through her. 

Xander murmured, "Somebody please tell me I'm dreaming. Again."

The vampire ignored him, looking hard at Buffy. He nodded, but the nod was not the lazy, cocky motion she had grown accustomed to seeing from Spike. "Yeah. Nice to see you too, Summers." The icy blue eyes glared at each of them in turn. Then, she heard that eerily familiar voice again. "What the hell _are_ you people?"

Giles stepped forward and Buffy felt his calming hand on her shoulder. "Are you Principal Snyder?" he asked evenly.

The lips curled in a sneer. "Took you long enough." He shook his head. "I really expected you, at least, to be a little quicker on the uptake, here, Mr. Giles. I'm the one who's dead."

Buffy hadn't wasted a thought on Principal Snyder in a very long time-- not since the week after the Ascension, when she had forced herself to remember everyone. She'd remembered how he died, and grudgingly acknowledged that, at the last, there had been a spark of courage in the blustering little man. She wasn't sure why it bothered her so much now, to see the familiar disapproving glare.

Giles was eyeing the possessed vampire thoughtfully. "Interesting," he mused. Buffy glanced back toward him.

"Share, Giles," she prompted, when he didn't continue. "What's interesting?"

"Well, most ghosts aren't this self aware. And they frequently are not even aware that they have died. Often, they're merely psychic echoes of their former selves, replaying some traumatic event, or trying to set right something left undone in the world of the living. Perhaps they tell someone a secret-- where they left a cache of money, or where their bodies can be found so their families can have the comfort of a proper burial. But, it's a very limited sort of consciousness, and it tends to fade quickly, whether the trauma or unfinished business is resolved or not."

"I always thought Snyder's consciousness was kinda limited to start with," Xander quipped with his usual lopsided grin. Buffy grinned too. Trust Xander to bounce back from the supernatural unknown with a joke. Even one as hellmouthy as this.

"Hey!" the vampire protested. He drew himself up with dignity, glared at Xander. "At least I was never fired from Starbucks."

Buffy blinked and looked at him curiously. "How did you know that?"

The blue eyes met hers. "I've been keeping an eye on you."

Giles cleared his throat. "All right, enough. How long have you been haunting my flat?"

"I... I don't know," he sputtered defensively. "Do you really think I'd choose to come here, if I'd had a choice? One minute I was somewhere else..." He paused for a moment and the eyes took on a far away look.

"And then, I heard voices. You two." He indicated Buffy and Giles with a shaking hand. "And then I was wherever you were. Here in this place, or," he looked to Buffy, "out in some graveyard at night with you." He paused, then admitted, quietly, a little sullenly, "I don't know which is worse."

Buffy saw a new thought flicker across the pale face. He lifted a hand and looked at it with careful, sickened horror. "My God. What have you done to me?" he whispered.

Giles raised his eyebrows. "It's temporary, I assure you," he said. "I needed a way to talk to whoever you were directly, and Spike... well, Spike will, regrettably, take no permanent harm."

"Spike? That vampire you had living here?" As Buffy watched the sickened expression, she wondered if it was possible for a vampire to throw up. She hoped she wasn't about to find out. It took him a few seconds fighting for control, but then he managed, weakly, "And what was that all about, anyway?"

Buffy rolled her eyes. "I've often wondered that, myself," she said, a little relieved. "But, fun as this reunion is-- Giles, do we have a plan?"

She saw Giles repress a fond smile. Well," he replied slowly, thinking it through, "It's been a long time since I participated in laying a ghost, but I imagine it shouldn't take too long to gather the necessary materials. We'll have to do a bit of research, for me to refresh my memory on the procedure..."

"Laying a ghost?" Xander interrupted. "And what would that entail, exactly?" Buffy grinned to see him blink, as one obvious interpretation occurred to him. He continued in a smaller voice, "No wait-- please, don't tell me."

Giles glanced toward the heavens as if for strength. "Not what you're thinking, at any rate."

Tara spoke up shyly, to explain. "It's what they call it when you find a way to set a ghost free, so it doesn't haunt the mortal world any more. My grandmother laid a ghost to rest once, when I was little. I don't remember it all, but... I think we had to find out what bound it to the world."

Giles looked at Tara keenly. "Yes, Willow told me-- you can read auras, too?" Tara nodded. He continued, "What do you read in his?" Tara looked at the vampire consideringly.

"Well, I see two auras. One is bound up very small and tight-- a kind of yellow gold rage. I think that's Spike. The other one is mostly blues, some green. I see someone who really values order, rules, predictability."

"Gee, that doesn't sound like anyone we know," said Xander.

Tara, still looking intently at the vampire, went on as if she hadn't heard. "There's something else there-- very faint. A kind of reddish glow. I think it might be..." She looked over at Giles. "Could a spell be keeping him here?"

Giles nodded. "It's certainly possible."

Buffy saw a new expression, for Spike, wash across the pale features-- a kind of blind panic. "A spell?" His head shook in emphatic, dogged denial. "That's not possible... I mean, I'm -- I was..." He shook his head again. "They tested me, before I came to Sunnydale. I was magic resistant. 'Impervious,' they called it. That was one of the reasons they offered me the job. After all the problems they'd had, they thought it would be safer."

"Safer for whom?" Giles wondered, as if to himself. Then he blinked and said, "Well, regardless, we have some work to do. But, I wonder..." He hesitated, looking from Snyder to Buffy, and Buffy had the feeling she was not going to be pleased with his next suggestion. She was right.

"You say you sometimes leave this flat, to accompany Buffy out on patrol?" The blond head nodded warily. Giles continued, "Then perhaps, Buffy, you would be good enough to take him out with you now? We would probably be quite a bit warmer." As Buffy opened her mouth to protest, he added, "And we might be able to find a solution to this situation more quickly."

Buffy had to concede the logic, but... "All right, but do we have to leave him like this? It's kinda giving me a wiggins, hearing Snyder's voice coming from Spike."

Giles glanced back at the book in his hand, flipped back a page or two. "It says here that often, once a spirit has made contact in this manner, it is able to manifest in its own form, without the need for a vessel like this."

Snyder nodded. "Do it," he said grimly. Then, more quietly, he added, "Please."

Buffy watched as Giles raised a hand and muttered another incantation. The vampire convulsed for a moment, then fell to his knees. He looked up, froze for a beat, then was out the door and off into the night like a scalded cat.

In the place where the vampire had stood, there was a pale outline of a balding, middle aged man in a dark suit and a striped tie. He looked up from examining his translucent hands, and met Buffy's gaze. She rolled her own eyes in disgust. "Let's go," she said. "But Giles-- you are so gonna owe me."


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Special thanks go to the following for perceptive comments, helpful advice and general beta magic: rahirah, clavally, theblackmare, rainkatt, gillo, slaymesoftly, partri65 and antennapedia. All remaining mistakes are, of course, my own._

_Spoilers/ Time period: End of Season 3 to Start of Season 5. This part follows on Part 2, in the summer a few weeks after Season 4._

* * *

Through a Glass Darkly, part 3/4 

Snyder watched as the Summers girl started out the door, up the steps from the courtyard to the street without turning to see whether he was following or not. He'd found in the past that he could sometimes be pulled along, without even trying to go through the motions of walking. But now, with his old form more solid than it had felt since he'd died, he found himself adopting old motions and mannerisms. He kept up easily, one hand thrust into his trouser pocket, just as he had once paced the school hallways, bent on catching a student cutting class-- Summers herself, as often as not.

He marveled at how much more clearly he could see, how he could almost feel the warmth of the summer night's breeze against his cheek. Everything seemed new to him, and it was... invigorating. He chuckled a little as the irony struck him. Then he sobered as the contrast between his current state as a dead man and his former state as a living one also came crashing home.

He glanced up as the girl came to a halt just inside the gate of Restvale Cemetery. As she looked around, as if to take her bearings, he muttered his thought aloud. "God, I hate this place."

He was rewarded by a puzzled look from his companion-- the first direct glance she'd cast his way since they'd left the librarian's place. "Why?" she asked, as if curious in spite of herself.

Snyder grimaced, his lips thin; he hadn't meant for her to hear. "The Petersen Crypt," he said shortly. "All that overgrowth around it. I hate it when you cut through there. And you always do."

He wasn't sure what he expected her reaction to be. Defiance maybe. That was pretty typical, at least in his past experience. But she just said, quietly, "I can take care of myself."

He stood there a long moment, as a deep sadness washed over him. It was worse now than all the other nights he'd been out here with her, unseen. It was sharper, somehow, like his vision, his other senses. He tried to glare at her, to grind out harsh words, but his voice sounded raspy to him as he shot back, "So I've seen."

There was an odd expression on the girl's face. Half perplexed, half suspicious. He drew himself up to his full height, barely two inches taller than she, and glowered at her, falling back on his old habit of intimidation. Her expression hardened, and now she did meet his gaze defiantly. Abruptly, she turned away. "C'mon," she spat back over her shoulder.

She headed up the hill toward a freshly dug grave. Snyder followed more slowly. When she reached the hilltop, the girl found a convenient headstone nearby, a little squatter and wider than the rest, and perched herself on it, swinging her white sneaker-clad feet like a hyperactive ten year old, unable to be still. Snyder joined her, shaking his head reproachfully.

"No respect for the dead," he murmured, with a quick glance up for her reaction. But if Summers heard him this time, she ignored him, digging in her bag and pulling out a sharpened piece of wood. He eyed her shrewdly for a moment, then asked softly, "Who are you? Really?"

She froze for a second, then turned and looked hard at him. "I'm the Slayer," she said finally, simply.

He'd heard them use the word before. But now he understood with a blinding clarity, that it was more than just a nickname. And also... "_The_ Slayer," he repeated slowly. "Only one. There aren't any more like you?"

Something flickered through her eyes, but it was gone too quickly for him to read it. "Nope. I'm kinda it." She hopped down off the stone and began pacing at the foot of the new grave, avoiding his gaze.

"And the Slayer kills..." He paused, forced himself to give voice to what he'd seen, unbelieving, almost every night since his own death. "Kills monsters."

"Yep. That's the job description. 'One Girl in All the World'..." She shrugged. "You'll have to get Giles to give you the whole speech-- he used to love that part. Me? I just work here."

"Why?" he asked, truly trying to understand. "Why you?"

Summers gave a bitter chuckle. "That's a really good question. One I've often asked myself." She shrugged again. "Fate, I guess."

He mulled this response over for a moment. "And you... you were doing this all the time you were a student in my school, weren't you?"

Another chuckle. "Yeah. Guess you see now why I was such a troublemaker," she said, with unmistakable resentment.

Snyder was surprised, just how it hurt to hear that bitter anger. He wanted to tell her that if only he'd known, he'd have done... something. But he knew it wasn't true. This world, the one he'd been forced to watch, night after night, was one he could never have believed in, before. He tried to remember why that was, but the old thought patterns and rationalizations eluded him. Finally he mumbled, "I'm sorry. I wish I'd... known. I would have..." He trailed off. Even in his dead ears, the apology sounded pathetic. Weak.

"Would have what?" She looked at him, as if not sure what to make of something so uncharacteristic from him as an apology. He wasn't sure himself. He struggled to put it into words, this feeling that had been growing on him as he'd watched her every night, trying to make sense of all he was seeing. Finally, he took refuge behind the cold formality of his classroom teaching days.

"My job was to prepare you kids for life," he began stiffly. "To teach you the important things you'd need to be successful. Discipline. Hard work. Order." He shook his head. "You shouldn't have been spending all your time here, doing this." He waved his hand vaguely at the stones around them. He glanced at Summers' expression and faltered, finishing lamely, "Keeping you kids safe was-- should have been-- my job."

The girl's mouth twisted in a disbelieving grimace. "How dare you?" Her eyes flashed as she continued, gaining momentum with every word. "You were all, 'everything's your fault somehow' and getting 'tingle moments' every time you thought of expelling me. And now because you're dead, you want to be all-- nice? Who in the hell do you think you are?" She was so angry she was shaking. And that hurt, too. Because, from his very changed perspective, he could see that she had every right to feel that way. Another old habit, defensive self-righteousness, came to his aid.

"You know," he snarled back nastily, "You kids were always so self absorbed, short sighted. Do you really think I liked being the way I was?"

"Um-- yeah," Summers shot back, still seething. "I _really_ think you did."

He started to feel the old boil of rage himself, and it made him reckless. "I did the best I could with what I knew at the time," he said, his voice rising. "One of the most naturally intelligent kids in my school, standardized test scores in the 98th, 99th percentile almost across the board, and what does she do? Hangs out with her misfit friends at all hours, cuts class to tend to her seemingly shallow, pointless social life, starts fights and trouble wherever she goes, gets truly dismal grades-- what was I supposed to do? Just stand by and let you throw your life away like that? And take my school down with you?"

Summers was eyeing him incredulously. "You have _got_ to be kidding me," she said, her voice dripping sarcasm. "You're telling me you were being a bastard to me _for my own good_?"

Snyder closed his eyes for a moment. Familiar as it felt to vent his feelings on his old adversary, he realized now that he didn't want to fight with this girl. After a moment, he turned away and said, almost as if to himself, "When I was in college, my advisor told me something about kids. He said, 'You've got to understand, they're just like us. We stick with our habits because they are comfortable, familiar. Easy.'"

Snyder glanced up at the girl, who was still glaring his direction. He fixed glittering dark eyes on hers, to emphasize the importance of his next words. "He told me that the only way people ever change their habits, replace their slovenly work ethics, tardiness, violence, with qualities that make them good citizens, is when something, or someone, motivates them to change those habits. He said, 'Ray, your job is to make it so uncomfortable for them, they'll do anything to change. They'll hate you for it every day. But someday...'"

He was interrupted by a sound at their feet. The dirt covering the grave between them was starting to move as if something were digging its way out from below. Snyder backed away and watched in horrified fascination as a vampire pushed its way out of the earth, an unnatural, grotesque birthing he'd witnessed so many times since his own death, but never with such clarity.

He looked on helplessly as Summers traded blows with the creature, not staking it immediately, but almost using it to vent some of those violent tendencies which had always worried him. They seemed so much bigger than she, yet she always managed to come through these battles unscathed. Or, at least, alive. Just as he stretched out his hand with the vague notion of picking up a nearby branch or stone, the creature exploded in a cloud of dust. An almost physical relief washed through him.

She brushed the dust from her blouse and turned, heading for the Petersen Crypt and the tangle of undergrowth behind it. Snyder sighed and followed without a word.

* * *

Buffy's thoughts were swirling with rage, confusion. She wanted so much to fall back on her own habits, to dismiss Snyder as she always had, as a sanctimonious prick who enjoyed petty cruelty for its own sake, and especially got off on making her life as difficult as possible. It really had never crossed her mind that he might have been trying, in his own misguided little way, to _help_ her.

But, as she pushed her way through the undergrowth choking the path to the fence, she heard again in her mind his muttered, unguarded words about this very spot. "_I hate it when you cut through there_," he'd said. "_And you always do_."

If Buffy had learned nothing else in the past year, she'd finally started to understand that people were not always what they seemed. Actually, she realized, that lesson went a lot further back. But it wasn't until now that she really got it, not in the abstract way of a bright kid who could read and understand something in theory, but in her gut, from painful experience and a little of that wisdom which was supposed to come with maturity.

She paused at the wrought iron fence, at the place where there was an unnatural, twisted gap between the bars. She had never seen the creature that had bent these bars thus, and honestly, she hoped she never did. She glanced back at the little man, watched as he bent to pick up a large stone, concentration etched across his features.

"How can you do that?" Buffy asked suddenly. Snyder started and the rock tumbled from his grasp. He looked up, then rose to close the distance between them, looking surprised to hear something almost civil from her after her harsh words.

"Um... practice, Summers," he answered, a little sarcastically, as if imparting one of his old lessons. But then he glanced back at the rock, lying in the path where it had fallen, and shrugged ruefully. "It takes a lot of energy," he explained, more matter of factly, "but if I concentrate hard enough, I can pick things up. Even move them short distances."

"Things like phones?" she asked, amused in spite of herself. Snyder paused uncertainly a moment. Then, a faint smile flickered across his lips.

"Yeah. Really, I thought you were never going to figure it out. Telephone, hello! Someone's trying to communicate with you," he said, his laughter bubbling up through a voice heavy with a different kind of sarcasm.

It was not Snyder's old pointed, mocking laughter-- it was genuine, a little self-deprecating, full of delight in the ridiculous for its own sake. It was so infectious that Buffy began to giggle a little, too. "Well, you know," she said, still laughing, "Giles isn't always the most observant of his own surroundings. Too busy watching out for me, I guess." Her grin faded, and she felt again the stab of guilt, at how she'd neglected her Watcher, and their friendship, over the past year.

Snyder went silent and gave her that shrewd look again, the one that, in the past, had usually indicated he'd figured out something he could use against her. But there was only a little sadness in his voice as he said, "You always say it like it's capitalized. Watcher. Like it's a title. What's that about? How did that librarian get mixed up in," he gestured at the broken spot in the fence, the overgrown crypt behind them, "all of this?"

Buffy ducked through the bars and started down the well worn path to the little creek running through the wooded vacant lot, trying to think of how to explain it. "Yeah," she said finally. "It's a title. And a lot more. He was sent to be _my_ Watcher. To train me, to teach me how to use all these powers I've got. And to help me fight whatever I go up against-- to know its weaknesses and how to defeat it."

Snyder nodded thoughtfully, as if a number of events over the past few years were starting to make a lot more sense to him. They reached the bank of the creek, and Buffy crossed it easily. She turned back to see Snyder hesitating, then pushing himself forward, unwilling to be left behind. She looked down at the creek, which was not much more than a trickle.

"You ok?" she asked.

He reached her side, a little shakily. "Yeah. I don't know. Something about crossing water gets me." He paused, then grasped at the thread of their conversation. "So Giles knows about all this supernatural stuff, because it's his profession." He paused, still a little unsteady. Then, with a forced smile, "I always had a feeling he wasn't cut out to be a high school librarian. Or, at least, that there was more to him than that."

"Yeah," Buffy agreed, still frowning at him in concern. "He also reads more languages than I can count, a bunch of them not even human. All those books you wanted to burn that time? The ones you couldn't read?"

"The occult ones. Yeah, I remember." He shook his head, smile fading. "That was a really weird night."

Buffy nodded. "Yeah. That was magic-- it affected almost the whole town. Even my mom." She peered at him intently. "What about you? Was that about keeping order, or did you really want to burn me and Willow and Amy at the stake like everybody else?"

He stopped in his tracks. "I-- uh, I don't remember. But, I'm impervious to magic. They said so." He kept saying it as if it were some kind of mantra, Buffy thought. She felt an odd tingle, the kind she got when on the edge of solving a puzzle.

"There was another weird night," she said, pressing him, watching his reaction carefully. "That night you hung out with me and Willow and Oz. And later, Giles and my mom. At that factory. The one where they had all that candy."

Snyder looked even more distressed now, as if, if he hadn't been incorporeal, he might be about to pass out. "No," he protested weakly. "They said..."

"Who said?" Buffy asked, urgently.

Snyder blinked, brow furrowed in thought. "The Mayor, and someone in his office. They interviewed me for this job personally. Asked me if I could keep order. Told me it was a very unruly school, a rough town. The last principal-- well, you know about that, don't you?"

Buffy nodded. "Yeah. I know."

Snyder continued, "So, they said that they needed someone impervious to magic. I didn't believe in any of it, but if they wanted to chant gibberish at me, who was I to argue?"

"But you believe now, don't you?" Buffy asked, almost sorry for him.

His answering laugh was hollow. "Oh yes. Yes, I do."

They reached the stone wall surrounding Morningview Cemetery and Buffy led the way to the nearest gate, a door in the wall, the lock long since broken. Snyder looked around as they passed through the door, then nodded approvingly as Buffy closed the heavy wooden door behind them. As if trying to change the subject, he volunteered suddenly, "I was supposed to be buried here." He nodded indicating the well-manicured green carpet over the row upon row of graves. "But I don't suppose there was enough left of me to bury, was there?"

Buffy looked over at him, and she felt again a twinge of sympathy. "I don't know," she answered honestly. "I could try to find out, if it would help..."

He shook his translucent head. "No. I don't think it matters."

Buffy remembered looking on in horror as Snyder had died, and she felt a rush of guilt. "I'm sorry," she said, her eyes downcast. "I didn't think you'd believe me, if I told you what the Mayor was planning. But maybe if I had..."

"If you had," Snyder interrupted firmly, "I wouldn't have believed you, and I might have barred you from the campus. You did the right thing, Summers."

She shook her head, feeling again the old losses, the ones she hadn't been able to save. Including the one standing here with her now. "A lot of people didn't make it," she admitted sadly.

"I know," Snyder said quietly. "But if anybody failed them, it wasn't you."

Their conversation was interrupted by a couple of vampires strolling toward the front gate, and dinner on main street a couple of blocks away. Buffy watched as they stopped and stared at what probably appeared to them to be a middle aged man and a girl blocking their way. The taller one glanced over at his friend. "Did you place a delivery order?" he asked, with an unpleasant grin.

"Nah," the stockier vampire replied. "Kinda nice, though. Father-daughter bonding on a beautiful moonlit night." His face changed, yellow eyes and fangs glinting. "Almost hate to kill 'em."

Snyder traded a sidelong glance with Buffy, then stepped forward and assumed a reasonable impression of a fighting stance. "You'll have to go through me first," he said with grim bravado.

Buffy suppressed a grin. It was actually not a bad plan. She waited behind him as the taller one's face also shifted and he rushed forward, stumbling as he met no resistance from the little man, only a numbing cold as he moved through the space where the man had appeared to be. He was dust before the confusion even registered in his undead brain.

Buffy turned and blocked a blow from the second one, noting automatically as she moved that Snyder was kneeling down, trying to pick up something hidden in the grass beside the path. Unlike earlier in the evening, this fight was all business: quick, economical movements. This guy was a little tougher than the fledgeling, and she wondered if maybe he was missing some of the reflexes that told his body it should fall unconscious when hit in the head a dozen too many times.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Snyder take careful aim, then clock her opponent upside the head with a hefty rock. She took advantage of the momentary stunned disorientation to reduce the creature to dust, wondering as she brushed herself off why she had a strange sense of deja vu. As she looked over at Snyder, another piece clicked. "You helped me last night, didn't you? With that biker vamp."

He looked a little embarrassed, ducked his head. "I might have," he said gruffly.

She studied him a moment longer, then smiled tentatively. "Thanks."

They stood there for another awkward moment. Snyder cleared his throat. "Summers, at graduation. The Mayor. Was that something somebody did to him, or... did he want to turn into that thing?"

She studied his face, respecting him suddenly in a way she never had before. It took courage to ask questions you didn't want the answers to. As gently as she could, she replied, "He... he wanted to be like that. It was an Ascension. A human becomes pure demon, gains all the power that goes with the package." She watched as he closed his eyes, his expression desolate. Betrayed. "I'm sorry."

He shook his head and opened his eyes. There was a familiar piercing anger in them, but it was for once not directed at her. "Not your fault, Summers," he growled. "I'm the one who fell for his act. You know, he actually gave me a commendation, for 'keeping an orderly school.' Can you believe it? Shook my hand and everything. He even told me, the day before graduation, 'Sunnydale owes you a debt.' Looks like he paid me, all right." He shook his head bitterly. "Me, and all those kids he killed. Damn."

Something was tickling inside Buffy's brain again. Another memory... "Principal Snyder," she said suddenly, urgently. "What did the mayor say to you, when he gave you that commendation?"

He glanced up from his self recriminations, startled. "I uh... something about how important keeping order was. Asked me about troublemakers." His eyes narrowed. "Asked me about you. And the librarian."

Buffy said, "We need to get back to Giles. I think I know what's going on. Why you're stuck here."


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Here is the final part of my tenyearsofbuffy ficathon entry. Thanks again to everyone for reading and commenting. If anyone knows other ghost!Snyder fics, I'd love to read some other takes on this. Please send them my way._

_Special thanks for this section go to the following: rahirah, clavally, rainkatt, and antennapedia. In addition, the gracious lady theblackmare drew the short straw this time and read the final, final draft as well. This story is much better for their intervention. And I know I'm getting to be a better writer by listening to them. All remaining mistakes are still my own._

* * *

Through a Glass Darkly, part 4/4 

Snyder slowly followed Summers back toward the librarian's apartment. At first, he'd felt a rush of hope, thinking that this long nightmare might soon be over. But then his grade school catechism started coming back to him, leaving him wondering just where he would go, when he finally left this world.

He'd always thought of himself as a good man. Solid. Reliable. Sometimes he'd been harsh, even cruel, over the years. But, he told himself, it had always been for the children's own good.

_Yes_, whispered the little voice in the back of his mind, _but sometimes you enjoyed it_. He'd almost gotten the Sunnydale Police to arrest this girl for murder, even when he'd known she was innocent. Just because he'd wanted her out of his school. If she hadn't left town while things had died down, she might still be in jail.

_Maybe_, another voice replied. _And if she were in jail, she might be a lot safer than she is out here, battling monsters_. But he knew in his heart it was as much a lie as the ones he'd told the police that night, and the days after. He could almost see Sister Mary Catherine looking down at him, love and disappointment in her eyes. "Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor, Raymond." What would she have said, if she'd known he would also grow up to side with a creature from blackest hell, and worse, to actively torment the one person who had been fighting every night to keep everyone safe from such creatures?

He sighed. He'd tried so hard to be good, to make her proud of him. The lessons on order, punctuality, discipline-- all those had taken root for her in the serious little second grader he had been. But the ones touching on the feelings of others, on loving thy neighbor-- those had always been a mystery to him.

Until, glancing ahead at the moonlight reflecting off Summers' hair, it suddenly struck him. He would do anything for this child. He really wanted, not what he arrogantly thought was best for her, but what she wanted as best for herself. He wanted her to be safe. And he wanted to see her become-- whatever she would become. Whatever she was meant to become. Even if it cost him something. He wondered if that was what Sister had been trying to teach him all those years ago. If, maybe, it was a kind of love. The thought scared him more than all the monsters he'd ever seen. But after the long time he'd spent alone, merely watching others live, he was reluctant to simply push the idea away and retreat back into his safe little shell. The familiar Gregorian chant he'd sung as a boy echoed faintly in his memory: "Ubi caritas et amor, Deus ibi est." _Where charity and love exist, there also is God_.

Summers stopped and looked back, and he read the concern in her eyes. "You okay?" she asked.

"I just..." He paused, unsure how to ask. Or whether or not he wanted the answer. He forced himself to continue, "If you're the Slayer, you must have some inside information, right? Is there really a God? Or heaven? Or... hell?"

The girl seemed to be choosing her words carefully as she answered, "Well, hell: yes to that one. To hear Anya tell it, there's more hell dimensions than ones like this. And she doesn't talk about it as much, but she says there are some heavenly ones, too. But... the jury's still out on the whole God thing. There are higher powers, and they seem to want me out here fighting evil and all that. But..." She trailed off and shrugged, then grinned as if trying to lighten the mood a little. "Tell you what-- let me know when you find out." But her grin faded as she read the naked fear on his face.

Before she could open her mouth to apologize, he said gruffly, "No, it's okay, Summers. I had a teacher once who said that it couldn't be faith, if we knew all the answers." They reached the librarian's door. "I'll just have to wait to find out. Same as everybody else."

She paused a moment with her hand on the doorknob, studying his face sadly. He tried to give her a nonchalant grin, but he couldn't tell if she was buying it or not. She turned the knob and pushed the door open and he followed her inside.

There was a roaring fire in the hearth as they came in, and the kids and the librarian were all sitting in front of it, on the couch or floor, with books, pads of paper, and pens scattered before them. Snyder sniffed a little at the untidiness, though it wasn't the first time he'd seen it. Then he felt a little guilty. They were going to a lot of effort on his behalf. His cynical side told him it was because they just didn't want to have to keep a fire blazing in here all summer long. But another part of him was beginning to have faith in these kids, that they really would do the right thing. Or, at least, the kind thing. And he found himself unaccountably proud of them for it.

The librarian looked up. "Buffy. Back so soon? Is everything all right?"

"Depends," she answered. "Would it help the research if we knew where Snyder picked up that spell?"

Giles gave a slightly bemused smile. "Yes, I imagine that would help a great deal."

Summers turned to Snyder. "You said you were drawn here to us-- me and Giles. And that the Mayor mentioned us in that commendation ceremony. What did he say? Can you remember?"

Snyder thought back. "He was handing me the certificate. Thanked me for keeping an eye on troublemakers. He mentioned you two by name. 'Buffy Summers and Rupert Giles,' he said. 'People like that are trouble. I'm glad you're keeping an eye on them.' Then he shook my hand."

Summers glanced over expectantly at the librarian. "What do you think?"

Giles was leaning back to pull a dusty brown volume from the nearby shelf. "A compulsion spell, perhaps," he said, opening the book. "Even if the Mayor himself hadn't that kind of power, he could have easily paid someone else to enspell an object for him. A ring, perhaps, or the certificate itself..." He trailed off as something interesting on the page caught his attention. Snyder glanced over at Summers, who was trying to control her restless energy. Something in her expression-- did she really care about this? About what happened to him?

"Ah, here's something," Giles said, scanning the page. "Tara, what do you know about compulsion spells?"

Something flickered across the girl's face. Fear? Guilt? Snyder wasn't sure. "Not much, really. My mom always said it was dark magic."

"Oh, she was absolutely right about that," Giles replied. "But, 'know one's enemy,' as they say..." He trailed off again, reading.

"Well," Harris' girlfriend spoke up cheerfully, "When we do break that spell, we've also found something that should zap you off to the next world just fine. Hope you lived a good life," she added, oblivious to the fear in his eyes. But to his surprise, Summers wasn't.

"Hey," she said softly. 'Don't listen to her. You'll be okay. I mean..." She thought for a minute, then said, "Look. You were probably meaner to me than anyone else, right?"

He had to admit it was true. "Yes. Yes, I was," he said reluctantly.

"Okay. Well, I don't agree with everything you did. And I think maybe you had way too much fun doing some of it. But... I see now you were doing the best you knew how to do. You get points for effort. At least from me." She gave him a tentative smile, and it was oddly comforting. "I hope that counts for something."

He was struck speechless for a minute. Then he said, very softly, "Thank you, Buffy."

She looked embarrassed as she turned back to the fireplace. Giles and the others were gathering up books and placing various supplies into a backpack and a leather satchel. "We'll need to go back to the high school grounds to perform the laying ceremony proper," Giles said. "And we will have to break the compulsion spell there, too."

"Great," Snyder and Buffy said together. They grinned at each other, and then Snyder let Buffy finish their shared thought. "Let's go."

* * *

They stood on the curb at the edge of the ruined high school property. Here and there, remnants of caution tape fluttered in the breeze, caught on dead branches, or pieces of rusted fencing. The only living things here now were the weeds, growing riotously out of control. And behind them? Crumbling walls and darkness. 

Snyder felt an aching sense of loss as he looked on the shattered ruin. It was still about an hour shy of dawn, and the sky was just barely lightening in the east. How often had he reached this sidewalk at this time, eager to start his day, and to enjoy a brief interlude of peace before he waded in to bring order and discipline to surly teenagers?

It wasn't the first time he'd been back. He'd accompanied these children, unseen, some months ago. Then, everything had been hazy, including the threat they were battling. But now, it was worse. He could see the desolation so much more clearly. And he was no longer invisible. He found himself a little irritated by Summers' curious gaze, until she came to stand next to him.

"This place was really special to you, wasn't it?" she asked softly.

"Yeah. Yeah, it was." He cleared his throat and said, loudly enough for the others to hear, "All right, everybody, be careful. There's a lot of broken glass and..." He trailed off, as he realized his old fixation on school safety, and the accompanying worries about liability, were no longer an issue. But still, he repeated, a little ruefully, "Just... be careful."

Giles led the way across the weed-choked front walk and around the side of the building. "Luckily for us, we should be able to perform the ritual outside, in the courtyard area," he said. "Should keep the ceilings' falling on our heads to a minimum."

Harris asked, "Why over here, though? Why not on the football field around back or something?"

Snyder said, as Giles was drawing breath to reply, "Because the ritual has to be done as close to the place of death, or to the body, as possible. Am I right?"

Giles nodded, seeming a little uncomfortable with the blunt assertion. But Snyder had always been quick to understand harsh realities. If other people couldn't deal with them, that was their problem, not his.

They reached the site where the Class of 1999 had gathered for the last time. Now, it was a tangled mass of weeds, broken earth, and twisted, rusting metal chairs. Snyder drifted over to an area to the right of the remains of the wooden platform. "Here," he announced quietly.

"All right," Giles said, moving to join him. He set down his leather satchel and began removing and sorting its contents on a patch of level ground in front of them. The others began emptying the backpack while Buffy prowled the perimeter, keeping watch, an oddly-shaped hunting dagger in her hand.

Snyder silently watched the preparations as they were carried out under Giles' murmured direction. Then he mustered the courage to ask, "How is this going to work, exactly?"

Giles answered without looking up, "We will have to perform two rituals. One will nullify the compulsion spell laid on you by the Mayor, which should release you from the obligation to watch over Buffy and me. Under normal circumstances, that might be enough on its own to release you, but given the length of time you've remained here in this state, I tend to doubt it. So we'll first perform the traditional laying ceremony for a ghost, helping you take care of some real or symbolic unfinished business so that you can move on."

"Sounds fairly simple," Snyder allowed. But he heard something in the tone, a kind of doubt, that made him suspicious. "What's the catch?"

"Well," Giles began evasively, "I wasn't really aware how, er, total the destruction was. Xander mentioned finding.. bits... of the Mayor, so I had hoped there might be something remaining of your earthly body as well-- perhaps a bone. But..." He shook his head, surveying the area. "Even if there were something here after all this time, I'm at a bit of a loss to suggest a way to find it."

Rosenberg spoke, from where she was laying out an assortment of herbs on a white towel spread as a kind of makeshift table. "But did it have to be the physical body? I thought I read that objects with special significance to the person, or something that was on a person when he died, could be substituted. Could there still be a coat button around here somewhere, or, I don't know, a key, maybe?"

Giles glanced up at Snyder apologetically. "It really depends on you, I suppose. I've read that ghosts have a remarkable ability to sense the location of significant objects, or the location of their... ah, bodies. I'm sure it's uncomfortable, but do you get any sense of...?"

Snyder began striding toward the collapsed breezeway, stopping at its edge and looking around for a moment. Then he knelt and fished around in the weeds at the end of the walk. He turned, rising, and held up a small object, a piece of twisted metal hanging from thin a metal chain. "Will this work?" he asked.

"What is it?" Buffy came closer to him to get a better look. He laid it in her hand.

"Something I wore every day of my life from the time I was seven," he answered quietly. "Given to me by one Sister Mary Catherine Joseph, on the occasion of my First Communion. It's a Christopher medal."

Buffy looked from the ruined medal to his eyes. She didn't say anything. Just looked at him in, not pity, but a gentle sympathy. He opened his hand and she replaced the medal in it. He concentrated on keeping a firm grasp, on the feeling of the cold, wet metal in his palm.

"So," Snyder said, turning back to the others, "How does this ritual go?"

"The um, laying ritual simply requires you to choose someone and impart some knowledge of import or significance to you-- a secret, perhaps. In this case, something as simple as revealing your full given name to one of us might do the trick. While you're doing that the rest of us can finish preparations for the other spell. We'll need to clear a space for a fire about here..." Giles indicated an area about three feet from the platform, and Harris, his girlfriend and the girl they called Tara began carefully removing chairs and rubble.

Snyder looked on for a few moments. To an observer, he might have seemed impassive, but inwardly his thoughts were racing. He pulled himself together and turned to Buffy, who was still beside him. "Miss Summers, could I have a word with you in my office?" He gestured and inclined his head, inviting her to precede him across the courtyard to the hallway door. "I believe you know the way."

Snyder's office was still standing, if one wanted to call it that. The bookshelves had collapsed, and the books and binders had long since been ruined by the rain which streamed in freely through the shattered window. In fact, their breakdown was so far advanced that he could see some wispy tendrils of weeds taking hold here and there in the piles of decay. The potted plant on the windowsill was still there, thriving out of control. It had been dying on Graduation day the previous year, he recalled.

But the desk was still situated imposingly in the center of the space, dust and debris scattered across it. Two chairs faced the desk, and his own chair had its back to the window. Buffy picked her way carefully across the threshold and let out a low whistle as she looked around the room.

Snyder's lips twisted in a wan smile. "Sorry for the mess," he said, oddly embarrassed. He drifted over to the open window and looked out, where the eastern sky was turning a pale pink as dawn drew nearer. He glanced back at Summers, who had seated herself carefully in her accustomed old chair, looking at him with an expectant but puzzled expression. He hesitated a moment more, then came to a decision.

"Raymond Ethelbert Ignatius Snyder," he announced. At her uncomprehending look, he clarified, "That was my full given name. And," he added, "If you ever tell _anyone_ else, I will personally come back and haunt you to death."

Buffy's grin slowly brightened her face. "Hey, no one with a name like 'Buffy' has any room making fun of anybody else's name."

"That's true," Snyder agreed. He reached out to straighten the in-box tray on the corner of his desk, frowning at the result.

"But that's not the only reason you called me in here, is it?"

"Should be enough to cover the spell, if your friend Mr. Giles is correct," Snyder answered, still not looking at her.

"Maybe. What if it's not?"

He turned to face her abruptly. "Do you think we have any unfinished business?" He watched as she considered how best to answer this question.

"Well," she said finally, "You never did get around to expelling me..." She grinned to show she was kidding.

"Did so," he scowled. "Not my fault it didn't stick." He grimaced at the memory. "You have your friend Mr. Giles to thank for that."

"Yeah. I've got him to thank for a lot," Buffy agreed, a little sadly.

Snyder was looking out the window again. "I did have one other thing I wanted to say," he admitted without turning. "I wanted to say that I'm sorry. That I wish I had been the kind of man who could have helped you, or even believed in what you were doing... in what you were doing right under my nose."

There was a long silence. Then Buffy said, "Thank you, Sir."

He shrugged and looked back at her. She was studying him, as if trying to figure out another of the many puzzles that made up a Slayer's existence. He had no doubt she'd eventually come to make some sense of whatever she was wondering about. Just as he was equally sure there was no way he ever would. No matter how much time was left to him.

"We'd best be getting back, see how the others are doing," he suggested. She nodded and rose from the chair carefully. He took one last look around his old domain. Then, as he stepped through the doorway, he reached up automatically and flipped the light switch off. He paused, then grinned slightly. Old habits died hard, he supposed.

Giles looked up at their approach. "Excellent," he said. "We're just about ready here. You've completed the first ritual, yes?" His eyes flicked over to Buffy, then, as if trying to gauge her state of mind after her visit to the principal's office. Snyder smiled a little at his concern. Then he frowned.

"Well, yes," he replied. "But I'm not sure I feel any different."

The librarian, _no, Watcher_, Snyder corrected himself mentally, nodded. "I doubt you will until we break the other spell. Willow, would you hand me that white clay bowl, there by the bundle of sage?"

She passed it over without a word and Giles looked Snyder in the eye. "The original compulsion spell probably required more than blood. Knowing the Mayor, possibly a lot more." He looked from principal to Slayer, his expression very serious. "Breaking it may have some dangerous consequences, or unleash some unpredictable forces. I'm going to have Willow and Tara using their limited powers to boost a talisman which may offer us all some protection." He cast a stern eye on Willow and Tara, as if to impress upon them the seriousness of the undertaking. "One must always remember, Nature always exacts a cost for magic. There are always consequences."

"As there are in any endeavor in life," Snyder said, in what he hoped was a confident tone. "I understand. Let's... Let's do it."

"All right," Giles said. "Buffy, do you have the knife?"

"Yeah."

"And Snyder, you have the medal?"

He dangled it in the air at the end of its broken chain.

Giles held out the bowl. "Place the St. Christopher medal in this," he directed, and Snyder did so. He felt curiously bereft after it left his hands, though he had in fact been separated from it ever since the day he'd died.

"Now, Buffy, we must both cut ourselves with the knife and add a few drops of our blood to this bowl." He handed the bowl to her and reached out to take hold of the knife she offered him. He sliced the blade across his palm, just enough for the blood to well up in a crimson line. His hand flickered in the firelight as he held it over the bowl and let three drops of dark red blood fall. He accepted a clean handkerchief from Anya and wrapped it around his hand to stanch the wound, then took the bowl back and handed the knife carefully to Buffy.

The girl looked at Snyder for a long moment. "Any last words?" she asked, holding up the knife, stained with her Watcher's blood.

He considered briefly. Something in him still shied away from expressing his feelings, but this really was his last chance, and something else in him demanded, as simple courtesy if nothing else, that he acknowledge just what they were doing for him. For everyone. When he finally spoke, he made it a point to look at each of them in turn.

"You kids," he began, then grinned a little ruefully as he corrected himself. "You young people, and you, Mr. Giles... you're doing okay. Sunnydale owes you a debt." He grinned again, remembering the very different context in which he'd last heard those words. "A debt of gratitude." he clarified. "And so do I. Thank you for helping me. Whatever happens. Just... Thank you." He met Buffy Summers' eyes, drew himself up a little straighter. "I'm ready."

He watched as she sliced the knife across her own palm. As if from a great distance he heard the watcher's quiet voice, chanting something in Latin he could not quite make out. As the blood dripped into the bowl, he saw a light, flickering at first, then growing ever brighter before his eyes. His last thought was that the light was really kind of beautiful. Just like Sister had always told him it would be.

* * *

_Epilogue:_

Buffy sat on the couch staring at the fading embers in Giles' fireplace. It was early morning. Giles was busying himself putting away the spell ingredients that had helped send Ray Snyder to his final destiny. Xander and Anya had left their friends at the high school front walk, supposedly so Xander could catch a little sleep before work. Tara and Willow had bid them good night on the walk outside, receiving a warm hug from each of them in turn. Willow had looked a little concerned for her, but Buffy had smiled reassuringly and said, "I'll stay here a while. I'm okay."

Giles had allowed her to mull over the night's events without much conversation, though she had caught him gazing over at her several times, gentle concern in his eyes. But now, placing the last of the herbs in their places in the cabinet, he said, "You've been very quiet, Buffy. Are you sure you're all right?"

She glanced up as he came to join her on the couch. "Yeah," she said. "My hand hurts a little." She held up her bandaged hand. Then she grimaced. "I bet yours is worse. Sorry. No Slayer healing for you, huh?"

"No, just the ordinary Watcher kind, I'm afraid." He studied her face closely. "You look tired. Would you like me to drive you home?"

Buffy shook her head and stared back into the fireplace. "Nah. Mom's out of town and..." She trailed off, unsure how to express it.

"And you don't want to be alone just now," Giles finished for her. She smiled gratefully.

"Yeah." They lapsed into silence again. Then Giles stirred beside her.

"Um, Buffy, did Snyder say anything to upset you tonight? Because if he did..."

Buffy shook her head. "No. It's just... I hated him, you know?"

Giles nodded. "We all did. What did he say to you tonight, then? He seemed very different from the odious little troll I remember."

Buffy smiled. "Yeah, he really did."

And Buffy related the whole of the night's adventures to her Watcher. When she had finished, they both sat in silence for a few minutes. Then Buffy looked up with a puzzled frown.

"I thought Snyder was just petty and cruel because he enjoyed the power. But he really thought he was doing good by being so mean to us. He thought he was helping us. How can someone go through his whole life, get to where he's a grown up like that, and be so wrong about everything?"

Giles considered the question soberly. "Well, Buffy, adults are really very little different from children in that regard. Older, more experienced, perhaps. But people see, by and large, what they wish to see. And they form habits of perception over the years, to explain their experiences, and to shape the ways in which they respond to those experiences. Snyder was no different."

"Yeah." Buffy frowned, unconvinced. "But the good man I met tonight-- he was always there, somewhere inside. Why couldn't he have shown himself before now? Before he died?"

There was a much longer pause this time, before Giles replied, almost as if to himself, "I suppose some men are too afraid. Some men take on a role to help them do what they perceive to be their duty, and they wake up one morning to find they have become that role. It's no longer something they can cast off at will. They need it too much, to fulfill their purpose in the world."

"Roles like Watcher?" Buffy asked, looking hard at him.

Giles shrugged, not meeting her gaze. "Perhaps."

"What would you be like? If you weren't a Watcher?"

"I... I don't know," he answered. "The only time in my life that I wasn't a Watcher, I was something much worse."

"And that was a role, too, wasn't it?"

"Yes. Yes, I suppose it was."

Buffy was frowning again. "So how can I know when I'm right? If someone so much older can be that clueless, what chance do I have?"

"Buffy," Giles said patiently, "Principal Snyder was hardly a model of self awareness when he was alive. And he lacked a very important resource you possess. You have friends who will tell you honestly when they think you're off track. And the fact that you think to ask these kinds of questions-- you're decades ahead of Snyder there. You'll be all right. Trust me."

Buffy yawned. "Sorry," she said. "It's been a long night."

Giles smiled and rose from the couch. "Indeed it has. Let me get you a blanket. You're perfectly welcome to stay as long as you like."

"Thanks, Giles." She watched him go down the darkened hallway to pull a blanket from his linen closet.

"Giles?" she asked, as he returned and held out the thin cotton blanket, all she really needed on a summer's night.

"Yes?"

"Promise me something. Promise me you'll practice letting go of your role once in a while. Just being you. Whoever that is."

Giles gave her a long, considering look. "All right," he said finally. "I'm not sure I know how, but... I promise."

Buffy settled herself under her blanket. Giles reached over to switch off the lamp. Buffy said, "Please... leave it on." He gave her a look of mild surprise, and she explained, "Ever since those creepy dreams we all had, I've been a little restless at night. I wake up a lot. I just don't want to wake up and not know where I am." She brightened as a new thought occurred to her. "But hey, maybe with Snyder gone, things will get back to normal."

Giles chuckled. "Or whatever passes for it here. All right, then. Good night, Buffy."

"Good night, Giles."

She heard the stairs creak underneath his feet as he ascended to his own bed in the loft. She felt safe and warm, but a little uneasy. She needed to get out more she decided, just before she fell asleep. Let go of her Slayer role once in a while, just be a normal college kid. She wondered what the two of them would be, without their roles to dictate their actions. Just Buffy. Just Giles. She smiled as she drifted off to sleep.

* * *

For anyone interested, a postmortem of this fic can be found on my live journal: (take out the spaces): 

http:// hobgoblinn . livejournal . com / 28859 . html


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